"Go to the police and tell them. Let them worry about it."

"Barbara, once it's told-you don't edge into something like this. I tell them a girl's been murdered, it's out, everybody knows about it. It's in the papers, the whole story. I'm fooling around with a young girl and she ends up dead."

"Can't it be approached, you know, confidentially? Keep it quiet?"

"I don't see how. Not when someone's been killed."

She stared at him a moment. "You're afraid of the publicity? Is that what's bothering you?"

"Barbara, the girl died because of me, because I knew her. That bothers me more than anything. The publicity-" He paused. "I don't see this, if it got in the papers, as what you'd call bad publicity. I see it as something that could destroy our lives, affect our kids, ruin, wipe out everything I've worked for, built up. Listen, I feel this more than I can explain to you. I mean I want to do what's right, I want to see them caught. But I'm also realistic, practical about it."

"I told Ross," Barbara said, "I thought you were sometimes cold-blooded. But that isn't really the word."

"Use it if you want," Mitchell said. "I'm saying I don't feel, my conscience doesn't tell me I have to go to the police. Like that's the only way."

"But what other way is there?"

Mitchell paused. "What if-I don't know how-I handled it myself?"

"Mitch, please. Don't say that. They've already killed someone."

"So have I. With six machine guns."

"Mitch, that was different. My God, I don't have to tell you that."

"I'm not saying I'm going to. I'm saying what if."

Barbara stood up. "Mitch, look, if there isn't a body, you can refuse to pay them. If there's nothing they can hold over you-the threat of telling the police-then you're out of it. There isn't a thing they can do."

"But they'd still be loose," Mitchell said. "They killed that girl as coldly as you can do it, and they'd still be loose." He looked up at his wife. "I'm in this, Barbara. I'm not going to run, I'm not going to try and forget about it and hope it goes away. I'm going to do something."

That was exactly what she was afraid of.

Barbara made him an omelet with cheese and onion and green pepper. He stood at the counter to eat it, with French bread and an avocado, and the beer she had handed him earlier. He was tired, but he didn't feel like sitting down. He was thinking about Leo Frank and picked up the photograph again. He was thinking about getting in the car and driving down to Detroit. It would take him about twenty-five minutes, that's all. Start with Leo, because he still had a feeling about Leo. Walk into the model studio and this time talk to him. Lead him with questions and watch his reaction.

Barbara said, "Did you tell them you'd pay?"

Mitchell shook his head. "No."

"Do they think you will?"

"I don't know."

"Mitch, even if you wanted to pay them"-she paused as he looked up at her-"where would you get the money? Over a hundred thousand dollars?"

"I've never considered paying, so I haven't thought about it."

"We don't have that kind of money. Do they think you just keep it in the bank?"

"Barbara, I don't know what they think. I guess they figure I can get it if I have to, at least ten thousand bucks at a time. The first payment's due tomorrow."

"And another one a week from tomorrow," Barbara said, "and another a week later. Can you put your hands on thirty thousand dollars that fast?"

"I could if I had to."

"You'd have to sell some stock, wouldn't you?"

"Or borrow it from the bank."

"But without borrowing-you can't touch the trust funds, can you?"

"No. Or the depreciation investments. In fact, I just sold most of our fooling-around stock last month and put the money into five-year municipal notes. We can't touch that either."

"So if you wanted to pay them off," Barbara said, "how much do you think you could raise?"

"If I had to?" Mitchell paused. "I don't know, maybe forty or fifty thousand without too much trouble."

"Do you think they'd settle for that?"

"Are we just thinking out loud or what?"

"You said the one sounded as though he knew as much about you as your accountant."

"He knows about the royalty. That's enough."

"What if you showed him exactly how much you can pay?" Barbara said. "Whatever the amount is, but that's it and no more. Do you think he'd settle for it?"

Mitchell put his fork down. He looked at his wife, at her drawn fixed expression, and knew she was serious. "You think I'd make a deal with them?"

"Mitch, they killed that girl. If you won't go to the police then you have to pay them. Don't you see that? Or they'll kill you."

"You think if I pay them, that's all there is to it? They go away, we never hear from them again?"

"Talk to them when they call," Barbara said. "Tell them you'll show them facts and figures, what you can afford to pay. If you can convince them that's it, why wouldn't they take it?"

"You make it sound easy," Mitchell said. "Expensive, but easy."

"How much is your life worth?" Her voice was calm; the concern, the fear, was in her eyes.

"I don't know, if I got close enough to talk to one of them," Mitchell said, "I'm liable to break his jaw."

Barbara closed her eyes and opened them. "Mitch, go to the police. Will you please?"

He finished the beer in his glass and placed it on the counter. "Talk to one of them," Mitchell said then. "Not all of them. Just one."

"What do you mean?"

"That could have possibilities," Mitchell said. He nodded, thinking about it. Yes, it sure could. Get one of them alone and talk to him. If he could first find out who they were.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing really. Maybe an idea; I don't know."

"Would you like some coffee?"

"No thanks. I want a bed more than anything else." He looked at her for a moment, saw no response in her eyes and started to turn away.

"Mitch-"

There it was, a good sound. Soft, familiar. He turned to look at her again.

"What?"

"God, I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Then don't go," Barbara said. "Stay here."

"I'm sorry." He wasn't sure how to say it, but he knew he was going to try. "I'm really sorry I hurt you. I don't know why-it was a dumb thing I got into."

"I know." Barbara nodded slowly. "Let's not talk about it anymore, all right? Let's go to bed."

12

Janet came into his office and placed two accounting ledgers on his desk. She went out and came in again with his stock portfolios, insurance policies, bank books and trust fund agreements in plastic folders.

"Martin wants to know," Janet said, "if you're blowing town."

Mitchell looked up at her. "That's what he said, uh? Blowing town?"

"He said, 'What's he going to do, take the money and blow town?'"

"Tell him I'm going to Hazel Park," Mitchell said. "I'm going to quit gambling on machine parts and put it on the horses."

"I don't believe he'd believe you."

"Martin doesn't believe anything unless it's on a balance sheet."

Janet held a long piece of calculator tape curling in her hand. She reached across the desk to give it to Mitchell. "That's the total. Martin says you couldn't possibly raise any more than that before April of next year."

Mitchell looked at the total, at the bottom of the tape. "That's all, uh?"

"I can ask him to come in if you want to talk to him."

"No, that's fine. Did he put it all on one sheet?"

"It's there on top. Itemized."

"Very good."

Janet waited. "You're not really going to the track, are you?"

"No," Mitchell said, "I'm going to run away with a seventeen-year-old go-go dancer. Listen, I want you to go to the bank after lunch." He picked out a personal checkbook from the stack of folders and portfolios. "Here, and get me ten thousand dollars."